Fighting for Nothing
by Megii of Mysteri OusStranger
Summary: In the end, it wasn't that Regulus realized he was in too deep, or realized the way of the light. His mission was never so noble. It was that Orion and Walburga realized too late who Voldemort really was. Canon-compliant.


Fighting For Nothing

_In the end, it wasn't that Regulus realized he was in too deep, or realized the way of the light. His mission was never so noble. It was that Orion and Walburga realized too late who Voldemort really was. Canon-compliant._

* * *

_Harry: "Were — were your parents Death Eaters as well?"_

_Sirius: "No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having pure-bloods in charge… I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up at first."_

— _Sirius Black to Harry Potter on his family's views_

* * *

Song: "Vitaliy Zavadkyy" from Black Swan.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night: the kind that was only read about in books. The fire roaring in the hearth did little to drive away the chill seeping through the windows, the rain pelted against the glass like a devil dead-set on clawing its way in. The year was 1979. 54 year-old, Walburga Black sat by the fireside sipping lemon tea and reading. On the nightstand beside her she idly took notes. It was nothing particularly important, just an enjoyable pastime to fill her evenings with when her husband, Orion, was out as he was now.

Their marriage had not been easy. They were never officially betrothed, but it had been planted in their minds since Orion's birth, which receded Walburga's by four years, that one day they would marry. And, as was expected of them, they did, though Walburga and Orion could hardly have ever been called "lovebirds," or even sweethearts. They were cordial, eventually comfortable, but their arguments were strident and bitter. However, despite the coarse beginnings of their relationship they eventually grew fond of one another, even cared each other in their own way, and bore two fine, pureblooded sons.

'_One_,' Walburga reminded herself sharply, ignoring the stabbing ache in her withered, embittered heart. '_One son_.'

She heard the front door open, no doubt her husband; thunder cracked at his heels, the flicker of lightning that preceded it spider webbing across the windowpane. Kreacher's usual, mundane greeting floated into her ears. When Orion didn't reply, she realized something was wrong.

"Riddle."

Walburga lifted her head and looked up to her husband, who stood in the doorway as pale as winter's first frost, his skin stark against his slate grey hair and dark eyes. His robes were drenched and heavy, soaking into the carpet. Kreacher fumbled around his legs. Orion waved the house elf away.

"What?" she said.

"It's Riddle," Orion repeated, his voice hoarse. His eyes, she noticed, were distant, lost in memory, horrified.

Walburga frowned deeply. "Riddle? _Tom_ Riddle, that upstart mudblood nobody from school? Orion, we haven't seen Riddle since nineteen forty-nine when he was working as a shop boy at Borgin and Burkes. What _about_ him?"

"He's Lord Voldemort."

Walburga started as if struck. Her quill and inkwell crashed to the floor, the book in her lap following. The rug was an antique from the orient. Walburga was too stunned to care.

"_What_?" the word came out as a breathless, horrified whisper.

He lifted a chalky hand, bearing a thin, black wand, and wrote a name in the air.

LORD VOLDEMORT

The burning letters rearranged themselves.

TOM RVOLO RDDLE

Walburga gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth, feeling sick. Orion's hand shook as he added the words "I AM" to the equation, finishing the anagram.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

It was too accurate to be coincidence.

"Orion," she asked throatily, "How… where did you discover this?"

"Don't ask; you don't want to know."

"But…"

"_Don't ask me_, Walburga!" He snarled, but the malice in his tone was not directed at her.

"Dear, sweet Merlin, how? How could this have happened?" she breathed. "We can't afford this kind of scandal, we're at _war_."

"Yes, as he means for us to be."

Her dark eyes flew up to his. The skin of her face was taut with strain. His seemed to be set in stone.

"You see what he's doing, Walburga?"

"Orion…"

"He's killing us off. Not just the mudbloods, us, too. Didn't you think it strange, the way Abraxas got sick? When was the last time anyone died from Dragon Pox? That Potter boy's cousin, Charlus, and Dorea—that Runespoor that got into their house, that killed them and their infant son; I'm sure someone put it there. Alphard's house burned down while he was out due to _fire salamanders_, when you know full well he has his fires put out whenever he's not home, always." Orion's breath rattled like he was at death's door.

"He waited. He left, learned, and _waited_ until we _forgot_ about him. It's his revenge on us, for what we did to him in school. He's killing us and binding our children to him like _dogs_."

Walburga covered her face with trembling hands. "Oh, _Merlin_, my _son_. Regulus! Orion, that half-breed mudblood has our _son_!" She wailed, her voice swelling and growing to a sharp scream. Kreacher cracked into the room, fumbling around her in worry, but she didn't respond to his ministrations, sliding out her chair to her knees, shrieking and pulling at her scalp.

Above their heads, they heard the thump of running feet; her shrill screams had awoken Regulus. Orion stood still as the steps pounded down the stairs, down the hall, and the door of the lounge opened with a bang.

Regulus dashed to his mother's side, disheveled and dressed in his nightclothes, but his concern for his parent overrode propriety. He ran his hands over her shoulders, rubbing frantically as if he could draw her out of her madness by touch.

"Mother! Mum! What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"Regulus!" she cried, pulling the youth close and rocking him. "My poor, perfect, Reggie! My only son! Oh, what do we do, Orion!"

"Mother?" the 18 year-old questioned, blatantly confused. "Father?"

The sleeve of his nightshirt had ridden up, exposing the Dark Mark on his arm, black and writhing lazily. Walburga caught sight of it and began her shrieking anew. Clutching her son's wrist, she pulled out her wand and pressed it to his skin in an attempt to burn it off his flesh, her teeth bared hideously.

Regulus howled and clawed at her wand hand. "Stop! What are you doing? Stop, Mother, stop! You're burning me! _Stop_!"

"Walburga!" Orion bellowed.

She dropped her wand with a cry and pulled Regulus tight against her. The youth gasped, grasping at the burned skin of his forearm, cheeks wet with tears. Walburga sobbed.

His face unusually apathetic, Orion knelt and pulled his son's damaged arm to him. He traced his wand over the reddened skin, mending it. Regulus shivered, but the line of his jaw was firm as he swallowed the worst of his pains. Had his mother's actions not caught him so completely off guard, he would have never cried out from the pain in the first place.

"I've just discovered a terrible truth, son."

"Father?"

Orion's gaze was solid and stormy. "He's deceiving you, Regulus. The Dark Lord is nothing, but a half-blood."

Regulus' first instinct was to defend his chosen Lord, but he bit his tongue, considering his father's words, spoken so gravely but surely, and his mother's unexplained hysteria. These were his _parents_, Blacks, among the purest purebloods there were. They would not make this accusation without reason. _Good_ reason.

"What makes you think that the Dark Lord is not a pureblood?" he asked warily.

Orion flexed his hand around his wand and stood, his tall form unfolding until his shadow lied across the forms of his son and wife.

"Kreacher." The house elf was beside him at once, bowing low. The Black Head continued, "I need you to retrieve Hogwarts' nineteen forty-five yearbook."

Regulus' eyebrows rose. A moment later Orion held a thin black leather tome in his hand.

"We went to school together," The older man began. "He was in the year below your mother, and two years above me." He paused on a page near the back, his expression hardening. He took a breath to steel himself and turned the book over to show its contents to his son. One long finger pointed at the black and white portrait of that year's Head Boy, a devastatingly handsome boy with black hair and piercing dark eyes.

Regulus' breath caught. He rose out of his mother's embrace, leaving behind her watery whimpering to take the yearbook into his own hands.

"It's the Dark Lord," he breathed.

"Tom Riddle," Orion said darkly.

Regulus stared in disbelief. "It's him. Younger, more…" he swallowed, "More _alive_, but it's him. _Riddle_," he whispered, brow sinking into a frown, "But that's…"

"A muggle name." his father finished. "His father was a muggle, his mother a witch. He grew up in an orphanage, his mother having passed away in childbirth and his father wanting nothing to do with him. The name he bears now is an anagram."

"Self-righteous mudblood bastard," Walburga hissed, tears drying as her face twisted. Regulus' gaze snapped down to her. "We couldn't accept such filthy blood in Slytherin's House, tried to put him in his place, we did. But, he was powerful; he knew magic, better than any mudblood should have, better than any _first year_ should have. No one got of hint of his heritage until his fifth year; never said it outright, but he couldn't _shut up_ about it, the street rat. Nearly shut down the school playing with that little _pet_ of his, marred Slytherin House's name, our respect drowned with fear!"

Regulus worried the inside of his mouth. "But, the Dark Lord is the Heir…"

"Salazar Slytherin's blood, hah! Slytherin has been _dead_ for a thousand years!" Orion snarled. "His blood reduced to those tramps, the Gaunts! A rotted branch on the pureblood tree: amputated and exiled for good reason; inbred because no other purebloods would have them! There's no glory in his line anymore! And now _Riddle_ is trying to stamp us out, too!"

The young man's head whipped up, eyes as wide as saucers. "Too?"

The old man's expression was nothing but hateful. His voice, however, was soft. "They say that the Dark Lord doesn't treat his followers any better than he treats his enemies. It's true, isn't it, my son?"

Regulus' face fell, and he looked away, unwilling to allow his shame to show. His knuckles clutched the yearbook, ashen. That boy, that oh-so handsome boy in the book smirked up at him, mockingly.

'_Deceiver_. _Serpent of Eden, you fooled us all._'

"It's his revenge on us." Walburga said.

Orion continued the train of thought. "This war… you're just fighting for no good reason. It can only end in death for both sides. That's his intention. This is a war for _nothing_."

Regulus felt sick. His stomach twisted and knotted, nausea rose in his throat and he forced it down. The yearbook fell from his shaking hands and he sank numbly into Walburga's waiting arms, his eyes staring at nothing.

"Dear Merlin," he murmured, "And I…" his fingers squeezed the serpent and skull on his arm, fingernails digging into the flesh. "Mother, Father… what do I do?"

"You do the only thing you can,"

Regulus looked up into his father's steely eyes.

"You destroy him from the inside."

Easier said than done, and it wasn't easily said in the first place. Nevertheless, Voldemort had gained a traitor. Regulus went on as usual, but at the end of the day reported to his parents without fail, and by night studied and studied, probing for weaknesses in the Dark Lord, seeking out what had changed his appearance into the monstrous form it had decayed into. Walburga had a theory, but she refused to speak of it until Regulus had something to report to support it.

Meanwhile, the war began picking up its pace. Raids and murders happened more and more often, and even Orion and Walburga shuddered at the grisly tales their son had to tell.

"He's up to something," Regulus finally said one evening. Dark circles rested under his eyes, his face sallow and thin; the war was taking its toll on him more quickly than ever. "He gave a strange cup to cousin Bellatrix a while ago, and a book to Lucius Malfoy, made them swear to keep them safe. Tonight asked the rest of us for a house elf—I volunteered Kreacher. He's already gone to the Dark Lord."

Orion nodded gravely. "Well done, Regulus."

Walburga's eyes widened, her irises lost outside of her enormous pupils. "Three?" she whispered. "_Three_? Merlin's beard, no one's _ever_… one is bad enough, but _three_…"

"Mother?"

She swallowed thickly, her throat creasing. "I think I know what it is. It makes sense… There were rumors my fourth year, that Riddle's boggart was his own corpse…"

"Get on with it, Walburga." Orion said.

"Horcruxes," She breathed, and her eyes flitted about the room as if something terrible would start oozing out of the walls.

All blood drained from Orion's face. "Horcrux_es_? _Plural_?"

She only nodded, her lips pressed in a thin grey line.

"What is a Horcrux?" Regulus asked; his eyebrows furrowed.

The two older Blacks looked over at their chosen heir slowly, and he nearly shifted with discomfort.

"Dark magic," Orion said hoarsely. "The Darkest of the Dark. It's not simply forbidden, it's—I've met Dark wizards, and none of them, not even the mad ones, would have ventured into that _depth_. It's more than Dark Arts; the Dark Arts may be wicked but in the end magic and magic and is dependent on intent, but this, this is _evil_ in every way. It has never been otherwise; it was created for no other purpose. Willing mutilation of the _human soul_ in exchange for a mockery of immortality."

Regulus' pallor soon matched his parents'. "Although it is the main source, magic comes from more than the blood," he said, reciting from one of the Black Library's more ancient texts.

Orion and Walburga nodded solemnly, silently. The clock chimed, nearly sending all three of them leaping out of their skins.

Kreacher had come back. The adults left him to Regulus' care; the elf was shaking and sniveling, poisoned by some strange potion, delirious with horror. There seemed to be no long-term damage outside of the psychological, however, but they took pity on Kreacher and left him to rest in his cupboard for the week, only allowing him to work at mealtimes—the Household spells Walburga had learned in her youth, but never used, came frightfully in handy.

Regulus scoured the marketplaces for a golden locket. He found exactly what he was looking for, surprisingly, in a muggle jeweler shop. It was almost identical to the locket Kreacher had described, but was brass, not gold, the emeralds simply cut glass—perfect for what Regulus wanted to do with it.

He wasted no time. Grimmauld Place was dark when he finally got home, and he roused Kreacher from his bed. The Black heir felt sick with anticipation, as if his mind were slowly unraveling. He could very well die, and was prepared for it, but it was a difficult acceptance. While the house elf rubbed the sleep from his eyes, Regulus took up a quill and square of parchment.

_To the Dark Lord_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more._

_R.A.B._

Walburga and Orion were awoken by the crack of Apparation. Warily, the Black Head arose and draped a night robe over his frame and went to find out what who had come or left. He returned to a wide-awake Walburga a few minutes later, his face yellow in the light of his wand.

"Regulus and Kreacher are gone."

They stayed up, and waited. Orion paced before the hearth; Walburga kneaded her hands as she sat in an armchair.

Regulus didn't come back. Kreacher returned, a sodden, sobbing mess, a golden locket clutched in his withered hands, miserably refusing to tell them what had happened no matter what demands his mistress shrieked. Walburga fell to her knees with an anguished wail. Orion snarled, overcome with fury, but it was not directed at the sniveling, cowering house elf. Kreacher did his duty; he was not at fault. The aged man snapped up his wand and a cloak and swept away into the night.

"Orion!" his wife shrieked. "Where are you going? Orion!"

"I'm going to get revenge for our son in _blood_! I'm going to kill that half-blood scourge tonight!"

"Orion!"

But, he had already reached the street, and with a pop was gone.

The Lestrange Domicile was a squat, dark building in the shape of a horseshoe. Thanks to Regulus' reports, Orion knew that none but Voldemort and his innermost circle resided there at present, even Rodolphus and Bellatrix barred save for when meetings were held. Only the lights of the entrance hall were lit.

The hundred year-old oak doors were sealed shut, but, consumed by rage and grief as he was, Orion blasted them apart with little effort. Splinters showered over his cloak, bits of twisted metal flying.

"Riddle!" he roared.

A man sat on a throne-like chair at the end of the hall, book in hand, and at the intrusion he looked up, his face twisted with alarm.

The years had twisted Tom Marvolo Riddle into a creature less than human: his flesh paler than that even of a vampire, his eyes red like fresh blood, cheeks hollow like those of a skull, his dark hair slashed through with grey in the fashion of his born era. But, to those that had known him, he was still recognizable as Head Boy, Tom Riddle.

He was on his feet a moment later, pale wand in hand, pointed at the intruder's breast.

"Do mine eyes deceive me, or is that little Orion Black, all grown up?" he said slowly, descending the stairs.

Orion's black wand shook in his hand. "Not so little any longer, Riddle!"

"It's Lord Voldemort now, or did your darling son not give you the memo?" The Dark Lord sneered.

"Do not speak of my son! Regulus is dead, no thanks to you!"

Voldemort's eyebrows rose. "Is that so? This is the first I've heard of this. I expect you're here to duel me, then, in the name of your simpering boy's pathetic honor?"

"You sicken me! Deceiving the sons of your peers to thinking themselves unworthy of kissing the hems of your robes when it is _you_ who is unworthy of licking the mud from our boots!" Orion roared, wand whipping. A sparkling pink arrow expelled from the tip, missing Voldemort by centimeters. The painting stuck to the wall behind the chair exploded as the arrow _thunk_ed into it, and the man in the portrait shrieked shortly before his existence was ended.

"_Really_, a simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The yew wand was flicked and it regurgitated a deep purple ribbon. The shield Orion conjured was effortlessly torn through and he leapt aside, earning a terrible wound on his arm. He crashed into a nightstand, which was crushed to smithereens under his weight. He fell, howling and thrashing, his shoulder a mass of gore.

"You've lost your touch, old man," Voldemort said, gliding over. "Ah, yes, must be those ridiculous _feelings_."

The Black Head snarled like an animal. A glory of crimson had already begun to form around him. "Mudblood bastard."

Voldemort's face darkened, his lip curling in disgust and hate. His eyes shone like light through a set of rubies. Slowly, he knelt and pressed the tip of his wand to Orion's grey temple.

"Farewell, Black. It was interesting seeing you again. Give my condolences to Regulus for me. _Avada Kedavra_!"

A jet of green, and Orion knew only darkness.

**End**

* * *

_Notes: Story title comes from the song "Fighting For Nothing" by Meg & Dia, but really has no relevance to the song whatsoever. I wrote this, needed a title then went "Oh! That's good!"_

_I wanted to try a different take on Regulus. He's always portrayed as this guy with a harsh mask and soft insides who sees the way of the light and goes on a noble, self-sacrificing mission to help bring down Voldie; I wanted to try making that not the case, because, well, I don't really see that as _being_ the case. On a bonus, I got to help Walburga along in her madness and come up with an explanation for Orion's death. Not my best stuff, but it was really just a plot bunny I wanted out asap, and overall I'm quite happy with it. Not sure why I like the Blacks so much; this is my second Regulus story. Maybe it's just because they're absolutely nutters? Crazy characters are always the most fun._

_Read, review, and all that jazz,_

_Megii_


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